


Don't Steal From Me

by BourbonOnTheRocks



Series: In The Eerie Light Of My Sleepless Nights [6]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: And So Does Beth, And it makes him feel things, Angry Sex, Angst, But Isn't That Already Canon Implied?, But Not Involved With The Smutty Part, But other feelings too, Character Study, Definitely Orgasm Negociation Though, F/M, I Have Some Self-Respect, Internal Monologue, Kinda Competitive, Memories, Orgasm Denial, Porn with Feelings, Rio POV, Rio explores Beth's stuff, Rough Sex, S3 spoiler, Secrets, Warning: Does Contain Some Dean, Well anger mostly, Yikes, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonOnTheRocks/pseuds/BourbonOnTheRocks
Summary: He was just curious. Made him feel vaguely powerful, havin' her whole life in a box, ready for him to exhume her darkest secrets. Or her most domestic ones, more likely.ORPost 3.07. Beth's life is in a box and Rio rummages through it. And it makes him feel things. And then other things happen.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Series: In The Eerie Light Of My Sleepless Nights [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653067
Comments: 47
Kudos: 370





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that there is something extraordinary intimate in looking at everything a person owns (and I really hope we get a S2 E11 reverse callback in the next episode), which gives Rio a great opportunity to get to know Elizabeth under a different angle.

The boys closed the doors at the back of the truck with a loud bang and Rio buried his hands deep in the pockets of his parka.

"All set?" he asked, tiltin' his head towards the storage alley, although he already knew the answer.

They'd had to rent a fucking big truck, by the way. It wasn't really coming as a surprise, but Jeez, who stored so much shit in their house? The whole op had needed for 'em to stuff the goddamn truck _twice_. When he'd moved out of his apartment, he'd loosely needed _one_ smaller truck for it, and God knew he owned a lotta stuff. No wonder Elizabeth needed money after such useless accumulation.

Mick pushed the safety bar at the back of the truck before he nodded at him, "Yup."

He performed a minimal but extremely accurate throw, the padlocks keys describing a graceful arc in the air before landin' in Rio's palm. Three keys. Three damn units, Christ.

"Good," Rio approved.

"You comin' for drinks, boss?" Mick asked, Cisco leaning against the truck and silently witnessing them.

Temptin'. Having drinks with the boys was a fuckin' whole experience. Mick turned to a really funny version of himself every time he was drunk, like, the boy told some hilarious stories Rio had no idea where they came from but was almost sure had never happened. Like that one with the duck and the bowtie... it still made him laugh all alone like a dumb-dumb when he remembered it. And Cisco... Well, Cisco was usually hittin' on people after a few rounds of shots. Dudes, ladies, whoever came around. It didn't matter anyway, cuz his rate of success was basically the same everytime. Blame his catchphrases, though. These were _terrible_. Like Rio himself would have felt sorry for 'em if someone had hit on him with this.

Long story short, having a couple of beers with his boys sounded fun. Maybe he could use the break, get some fresh, stale alcohol infused, air. Hit on some pretty girl at the bar. But... He looked down for a while before he slowly shook his head.

"Nah..." he pensively said. "But you guys have fun, drinks are on me!" he added, fishing a stack of bills in the back pocket of his jeans and throwing it at Mick.

The boy caught it flawlessly — Mick and him, they both had great aim, no matter the projectile — but clicked his tongue with disapproval.

Rio frowned, "What?"

"Nothin'. But you should have killed her when you got the opportunity for it," Mick sententiously let out.

Rio raised a meddling eyebrow. What the hell? This wasn't 'bout Elizabeth. It never had. His jaw rocked in annoyance and he glared at the boy.

" I can kill her whenever I want. I'm just waitin' for my time," he coldly established.

"Yeah, sure," Mick scoffed.

The boys climbed in the truck before Rio could answer, and he let them. His policy regarding his staff's impertinence was... kinda fluid. And when it came from Mick, he tolerated it. Most of the time, at least. Cause the boy knew the limit. And that last one... yeah, it was pretty close. But not toeing the line yet. He shrugged. Mick had no idea what he was talking 'bout anyway.

This had absolutely nothing to do with Elizabeth. Nothin'. His ma would have said that there was one too many nothing for it to be true, but again, what did people know. _He_ knew.

The first unit was stuffed with massive furniture, like couch, TV, beds, tables. Even an ottoman, according to Mick, a last fact he found hilariously ridiculous. Anyway, this was all kind of boring shit he had absolutely no interest in. He didn't really have interest in anything, though. He was just curious. Made him feel vaguely powerful, havin' her whole life in a box, ready for him to exhume her darkest secrets. Or her most domestic ones, more likely. He'd learned the hard way that at the end of the day she wasn't as interesting as he'd thought in the first place. He slid up the first unit iron shutter, though, just to be sure there was nothin' interesting in there.

And, nope. Not a damn thing. The corner of his lips flashed a minimal smirk on his face when his eyes scanned her marital bed, with the knowledge that he'd been there while her dumbass hubby was at work. He didn't give a fuck about that dude, though, nah. But still, the idea was kinda... satisfying.

He pulled the iron curtain back down, carefully locking the padlock and dropping the key in his pocket. Well, if the two other units wore the same level of interest, he could still catch up with the boys before they finished their first pint.

The second storage unit was filled from the back with all the upstairs stuff, aka her kids belongings. Poor things. He wasn't exactly proud of this part, they were just kids, man. They hadn't asked for their mother to be a cold-hearted bitch. He could only but imagine Marcus' reaction if all his toys, posters, clothes, his whole indoor life basically, had suddenly vanished. Wait, wrong example. Marcus was _used_ to it. They'd moved out a bunch of times, although the kid had always had at least a six hours notice. Anyway the point was that they were just kids.

He shook his head, annoyed. They'd get over it. Plus it wasn't like they would _never_ get their stuff back, unless he'd underestimated Elizabeth's dumbness. But who was he kiddin', she'd do anything for her kids, including going nuts for a stupid dubby — which by the way was currently reproachfully staring back at him on top of one of the bunk beds. Bottom line was, Elizabeth's kids were her weakness, just like Marcus was his. And using that specific flaw in her armor against her, as an incentive for her to _react_ , it was a dirty move, and a low one, even for him. But what other choice did he have, huh? He couldn't leave her with a half-emptied house just for the sake of her kids' happiness, that would have looked fucking amateur. Nah, he'd wanted her to come home with absolutely nothing, not a single forgotten roll of toilet paper, not a spare spoon fallen behind a cupboard, not even the screws in the walls to which she suspended her mural clocks.

The upstairs stuff occupied the bigger half of the unit, but some of the ground floor things were packed at the front too. They mainly came from the garage and the laundry room, which weren't exactly fascinating places for him to wander through. Her laundry stuff exuded summin' weirdly familiar, though, but he couldn't say what. He gave the garage goods a quick glance, noticing with a raised eyebrow that the Bolands owned quality DIY tools. Maybe he should take this screwdrivers set back home, teach her how it felt to be stolen from. Although he highly doubted she'd ever _notice_ that the screwdrivers were gone before long.

There was some freakin weird stuff there, though. Like, okay, garages were usually this purgatory place where people stockpiled random things that literally wouldn't fit anywhere else. But seriously, an empty _fish tank?_ He shook his head. What was wrong with these people? He frowned with a wince when he came across a purple paint can a few minutes later. What the actual fuck? Hell, since when was purple even a _color?_ She'd definitely get herself a comment about her horrible tastes the next time he'd be around her. He was on his way to leave this definitely boring place when his shirt's sleeve entangled with something on a middle shelf and he crouched to see. Well, well, well. Turned out he'd been wrong assumin' that there was nothin' interesting in the garage stuff. 

She owned a fucking shotgun.

He blinked, his fingers twitching with an urge to curve into a fist, his jaw rocking with contained anger while he was trying to fathom _this_. When? Clearly she'd never had a firearm in her pretty hands before the first time he'd handed her his own and dared her to shoot him with her stupid husband by his side. He could tell. But then... Then anything was possible. And why? Was it for him? Or had she grown a new hobby like... grouse-hunting or summin'? In fucking _Detroit?_

Nah... He couldn't picture _her_ with that. Her style would have more headed toward small caliber guns you can hide in your purse, not some ugly hunter's shit. Although given her taste in mural painting, anything was possible. But he'd still place a bet on hubby which... well, _who_ else could that dumbass be after but him? All things considered, this moron rebranding himself Davy Crockett's style was a perfect follow up to hiring teenage hitmen to get rid of him. Maybe that dude should try stand-up comedy instead of whatever fucking job he did, because some of his ideas were goddamn _hilarious_.

Whatever. This, they wouldn't get back. Nuh huh, no way. When he closed the second storage unit, he took the shotgun with him and carefully put it in the trunk of his car before he went on with his investigation with a lil thrill of excitement.

Cause the third unit contained, well, everything else. Kinda the reason why he'd kept this one for the last round. He knew exactly where was everything, provided the boys had followed his storing instructions, which wasn't a point even open for debate. On his left, right after he entered the unit, was stockpiled all the kitchen stuff, minus the content of both fridge and freezer compartment. The expirable food, he'd given it to the boys, cause he'd rather not have rotting bananas and dried muffins waiting for their fate in one of his storage place. And it was still good food so... But he hadn't claimed for his share. He didn't want to eat anything she'd made or touched.

Speaking of which. Elizabeth had a _massive_ amount of kitchen stuff, like at an insane level. Rummaging through the boxes, he went across weird utensils he wasn't even sure what they were for, and were probably the useless shit that he sometimes saw ads on TV for. Hard-boiled eggs slicer, two-seconds apple peeler, that kind of stuff.

He ignored the boxes full of books and generic furniture on his right and took a few steps forward. Personal stuff, that was way more interesting. He deliberately pushed aside her husband's box with a lil snort of contempt. Hers was quite disappointing, though. Lot of craftin' crap with ugly glitter and colored stickers. This he'd never get. She was smart. Part-time, at least. But he'd seen some real brain moments with that woman. And yet he couldn't fathom how she could possibly enjoy the dumbest hobby ever. Ew.

His eyes came across her laptop and he briefly considered the idea of askin' Bullets to hack it. See what there was inside. But it would probably be a complete waste of time. Technology had never been Elizabeth's strong side. Nah, she didn't have the patience for that. She was more the kind who'd throw a brick at a padlock than spend hours figuring out a server password. So apart from tedious PTA emails, holiday pictures, and maybe, maybe, a juicy browser history or embarrassing dirty pictures if he was lucky, there was nothin' he needed to know there.

Plus it seemed that she was still livin' in the Paper Era, judging from the stack of bills, mortgage and legal papers piled under the laptop. He took a quick look, just to see how bad it was. It was bad. Jesus, she should have started robbin' grocery stores way sooner. She'd always told him that she needed money, but honestly there was this part of him who'd always thought that it was bullshit, that she was just that kind of bored basic bitch who could use some extra cash for futile entertainment. Or just cause she liked to play the game in her case. But she had this big house, a workin' husband, nothing to worry 'bout. Maybe he got better her ladyfriends motivations. From what she'd let slip out, their situations were kinda harsher. But Elizabeth... Nah, he'd never really believed that she knew what it meant to really, badly, _need_ money. At least not until she owed him some. Well. Turned out she knew.

At the bottom of the pile, a large rigid envelope caught his attention and he opened it, cause, why not? Christ. Was she that broke that she couldn't even file for a divorce they _both_ had signed for? Was she stuck with that dummy just cause she couldn't afford a lawyer? And look, maybe there was another explanation, maybe they'd got cold feet in the last minute and would rather endure each other in a comfy house than face their respective selfishness. But in that case they wouldna kept the papers ready to mail, along with _bills_ and other things needing to be quickly addressed. Fuck. Maybe he would have tried to be a lil more patient with her if he'd known. But who was he foolin', he'd already been fuckin' extra patient with her, with absolutely terrible results. There was no room for compassion inside of him.

The next box was a bit disappointing. A sickening collection of framed family pictures and photo albums. At first he only stared with curiosity at her kids, at hubby's stupid face which didn't seem to have much changed with the passing of time. But soon it wasn't what focused his attention. Twenty years of Elizabeth Boland's evolution were displayed in front of him. The chance of a lifetime, man. He scrutinized every framed picture, trying to see if Elizabeth was already there, underneath _Beth's_ — ugh, he hated that name — neat facade. If this wild, savagely ruthless and kinda scary side of her preexisted to the doors he'd opened for her — incidentally the worst fucking idea he'd ever had.

But spending long minutes peering at her face, her eyes, her body, maybe it wasn't his best idea either. Cause all he knew at the end of his silent study was that he couldn't say at what age he found her the most gorgeous. And as for her dark side... he couldn't tell. He was still pensive when he moved on to the next section in the storage unit. Hopefully the most interesting part.

The boys had stacked clothes and household linen on large shelves against the wall, and he silently inspected the whole thing. He dreamily stared at her bedding, his fingers absent-mindedly roaming the fabric. Her sheets were soft, he remembered. Almost as soft as her skin when she'd... Nuh huh. He shook his head. Go away, stupid memories. And speakin' of memories, now he knew why her laundry stuff had felt familiar earlier. It was the scent of her detergent and fabric softener. Everything from her laundry room was literally _infused_ with that smell, which somehow his brain had labeled as how her sheets smelled and decided it was a valid information to store.

Funny thing how brain cells worked, though. Cause one sniff at that cheap mix of household chemicals with the right context, the touch of the soft fabric under the pad of his fingers, and let the circus of flashing memories begin! It was already too late when he understood the formidable trap he'd just entered. Fuck. Now she was all over her brain, the images of the first and only time he'd seen her naked makin' his dick twitch. The touch of her skin, the noises she'd made, the way her tits had bounced against his chest. The way she'd squeezed, hard, around him, and how...

Jesus fucking Christ. How could he not be over that yet? And just because of stupid _sheets_ , no less! With an angry shrug, he stepped forward, trading linen for clothes, but he didn't care about her fucking clothing. Obviously he recognized quite a lot of her attire, but... No. This had to be a cosmic joke.

Cause on top of the pile, in obscene display, it had to be _that_ dress. As if attracted by a magnet, his fingers immediately landed on it, splayed like a spider, remembering how her breast had felt against his palm. How her skin was burning when he'd squeezed the back of her thigh. Her broken breath and muffled moans, the absolute surrender she'd offered him. His own breath nearly lost its steadiness for an instant at the thought. It... it had been a surprise, truly. Not the fact that they'd eventually make it to a physical step, the bed kind, that one had been pretty obvious from the start. Look, she'd been starin' at him as if she was _starving_ and he was a plate of loaded fries. But her draggin' him to a dirty bathroom, _inviting_ him like that... That had been fuckin' unexpected, got his mind frozen for _days_ after that.

Okay. Time out. There was nothing to get but a headache from that. He disdained with a snort of contempt the small box labeled _'underwear'_ on the side. What next? He wasn't one of those weirdos who jerked off in ladies panties. Nah, that was gross. He quickly searched the box though, but just to make sure she wasn't hiding more interesting stuff there, like a gun or summin'.

The next shelf contained bathroom supplies. Well, that one shouldn't take him long, he had no intention to indefinitely stare at her toothbrush with starry eyes. A basic check would probably be enough. But maybe a quick look at the medicine cabinet could be useful. See if there was any specific condition in the family that he could take advantage of. Or at least just know about.

He deeply frowned at first. What the hell? Look, one would have been understandable, like, just in case, but _three?_ And okay, he definitely wasn't marketing target material for that, but pregnancy tests weren't supposed to be summin that someone would buy in _advance_ and stockpile, right? Think you might be preggers, buy one test, maybe two, and that was it. Unless... unless she'd been actively _trying_ to conceive, which didn't make any sense because she already had four and... Oh. Right. He rolled his eyes. He'd been fuckin' stupid on this one, hadn't he? Why did he still believe any of the shit that came outta her mouth, again? His nostrils flared but he wasn't exactly angry. Not completely, at least, amusement was definitely part of the battle. And... _pride?_

Cause yeah, that was a bold, fuckin' smart move from her. He wasn't easy to bullshit, but this one... He considered takin' those with him too, to throw them at her some day, see how she'd react, but nah. Would be a bit over dramatic, even for him. Although... Maybe it could be useful someday, alright? Plus it wasn't like she still _needed_ these.

Discovering that she'd never carried his child was oddly disturbin' though, and he was still looping over it when his hand accidentally went across her shampoo, and oh boy. Couldn't he be _over_ that shit, once and for all? A woman had shot him and he was still raving at the smell of her _hair?_ See, that was the fucking annoying thing with her. He just... well now he couldn't stop thinkin' about how much he liked pushin' them curly locks behind her ear. And the scent of her hair in his nose while he had his lips in her neck, the choked sounds he drew from her when... Fuck. That whole box was directly sent from hell, anyway. Next to her shampoo was a jar of her moisturizer, which his mind instantaneously associated to her skin and the next thing he knew he could almost _taste_ her in his mouth.

The precision with which he remembered every detail was freaking scary. Searching through the box, his fingers fished her lipstick and he uncapped it, automatically, like a fucking zombie. Red. Red like the blood she'd drained from him, but he wished that was what he was thinkin' about right now. Cause her lips were flashing in his brain like a fuckin' blinking neon, the way they perfectly matched his mouth when he'd kissed her, and her _tongue_... Jesus. The simple thought of her tongue in his mouth was enough to leave him with a semi.

But hey, guess what. It was the same tongue she'd languidly wrapped around his dick and then used to abruptly dismiss him less than two hours later, so nothin' to weep about here. Maybe he should take a few steps forward and focus on some other box, preferably one which wouldn't contain things her _body_ had touched.

He understood his mistake when he opened the box labeled _'nightstand'_. He'd expected crosswords, books, reading glasses maybe. Expired condoms he'd have scoffed about would have been the cherry on top. Alright. He did not expect such a... _collection?_ Well, he didn't know how many, but clearly more than she could use at the same time, for sure. So much for not runnin' across stuff which wouldn't make contact with her body. Not to mention... _inside_ of it. At least it would give him summin' to throw at her face — metaphorically, he didn't hit women, and especially not with this — the next time she'd annoy him. He'd surely like to see how deep the blush would go this time.

With a chuckle, he pushed the toys aside to excavate a small wooden box the size of about half a drawer. The actual fuck? This kind of box seemed to have been _designed_ to hide vibrators, not been put next to 'em. Seriously, what could possibly be more embarrassing than what was already there, that she had to give it one more step of privacy? Sometimes her sense of priorities was... Never mind.

The box wasn't locked though and it opened with a lil plop. At first he only saw pieces of paper he didn't bother to look closely at. He honestly didn't get this shit until he saw the bullets. _His_ fucking bullets. Man, was her nightstand specifically dedicated to stuff that went inside people's bodies or what? He'd actually never taken them back when he'd showed them to her but he hadn't expected for her to keep 'em. And for what? Trophy? Self flagellation? Shooting aim motivator? Or worse. Did she... did she _get off_ watchin' these?

His jaw rocked and he decidedly inspected the papers. The label of a bottle of bourbon he quite inferred whom she'd gotten it from — look, there would have been way more than one of these if this was the result of another one of her lunatic quirks to keep the labels of the bottles she drank as a souvenir. Some short notes were there too, with _his_ handwriting. He paused. At some point, she'd made it pretty clear that she was everything but sentimental, right? He seemed to recall three fucking shots 'bout that. Not to mention money stealin' and whatnot. So what was this again? A fucking memorial?

Expecting a new outburst of nonsense, he unfolded the last paper of the pile. And squinted. Why would she mix one of her kid's drawings with that shit? Besides, he'd already seen a pile of her children's artwork — to put it nicely — in another box. Jeez, this woman was completely deranged.

But then he saw the tiny letters, the _'for Mrs. Boland'_ in a handwriting that was all but unfamiliar to him and he had to rub his face with his palm several times not to smash _everything_ in that storage unit. She didn't get to keep that. She had no right to. And although he knew that she'd been around Rhea and Marcus for a while, he'd seen this as an abstract concept. The possibility that his son might _like_ her and craft drawing gifts for her had never crossed his mind. And he for sure wasn't okay with this.

She didn't get to keep this. She didn't get to keep any of it. At the end of the day, everything that was in this box belonged to him. This she would never get back. He angrily locked the storage unit with the box stuck under his arm before he violently threw it in the trunk of his car along with the shotgun and the pregnancy tests. He wished he could set all of her stuff on fire.

And maybe it already was. Cause even through the pocket of his jeans, he could feel her lipstick tube burnin' his skin with the memory of her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent quite a long time wandering in my apartment and trying to list all the kind of things you own in a big house so I hope I didn't forget any important part. If I did, let's say it was in the boxes of boring stuff he didn't look at!
> 
> There most likely will be a chapter two, but I'm having a really hard time at writing right now (I basically hate everything I write) so I don't want the stressful pressure of this 1/2 reminding me that this short story is not over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth POV and she's missing a couple of things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after 3.08. I wanted to know how they would handle the return of Beth's furniture in last week's episode, but it wasn't clear to me at all if the chairs Beth brings inside at the end are sent from Rio who's giving her back her stuff or if she bought some new ones because apparently Rio kept/burned/sold it all on eBay... So I'll just do my own thing, okay?

Eventually he gave it all back, after the whole Boomer thing. One day she just came home and all their stuff was there, as if it had never been absent for a week or so. And everything had meticulously been put back in the exact same spot.

Because of course he did. She was even ready to bet that he'd taken pictures of everything before, just to make sure that he'd arrange her furniture exactly like it was. Theatrics required accuracy. She didn't feel particularly victorious, though. At least she wouldn't have to endure Dean's vicious comments and mean innuendos anymore, nor the kids' heartbreaking complaints. But she was still extremely disapproving of the method. Just like when he'd mailed her human body parts. She could see the intention there, but it didn't make the means in use less inappropriate.

Dean reacted weirdly in the following days, though. He developed a strange obsession for counting and recounting his clothes, convinced that Rio wouldn't have passed on an occasion to steal one of his suits. Which... well, considering the average price of Rio's clothes was a ridiculous assumption if there was any. But Dean never had had a chance to see Rio's closet, so... whatever.

She wondered if Rio had even personally bothered to look at their stuff, if he'd had the same fascination for her clothing that she'd had for his. Probably not. The way she saw it, he was more like a giant instructions dispenser for his boys to listen to him. He'd never exactly hidden from her his extremely vertical conception of mid-management, and she knew that he had a staff for doing the actual heavy lift.

Hence she was surprised when Dean burst into the kitchen with an alarmed look on his face.

"The gun, Beth, the gun!" he quite cryptically exclaimed.

She looked at him with slightly raised eyebrows, "I'm sorry, what?"

Anger was printing its red blotches on Dean's cheeks, and Beth briefly compared his flagrant lack of emotional control to Rio's feline calm, muscles rippling underneath the surface and ready to jump in a heartbeat while his face would only display a subtle rocking of his jaw.

"The shotgun I bought? To protect us? Remember that? Well, he took it!"

She rolled her eyes. Great. Then let him have it. Deep down, she was more than relieved to know the gun out of her house. But dealing with an angry Dean was another painful issue.

"Are you sure that he didn't just misplace it back?" she asked, her voice purposefully soothing and honey-dripped.

"Oh believe me, I checked!" Dean let out in a joyless chuckle. "And you should make sure that none of your underwear's missing," he added with a disgusted wince.

There it was. The mean and quite gross innuendo, the shaming light in his eyes.

"This is not funny, Dean!" she protested with an eyeroll.

"Neither is he, Beth!" Dean replied, striding towards the front door.

And just... What? Since when had Dean developed a taste for dramatic exits?

"Where are you going?" she yelled at his back.

"To buy another gun!"

The front door slammed before she could add anything and she sighed. Getting rid of that shotgun was one of the greatest things that had happened to her in _months_ at this point, whatever Rio's role in this. And Dean's insinuations were _grotesque_. Rio would never... Her ears suddenly rang and her heart sunk like a stone in her ribcage. No, Rio wouldn't steal her panties, he stood above that psychotic red line. Probably not by far, though. But if he'd taken the shotgun, it meant that he'd searched. Personally. Or maybe one of the boys had found it but that was something he'd have immediately reported to his boss. And then... If Rio had searched their stuff...

She darted to the bedroom, her heart racing and her mind blank as she opened her nightstand drawer.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no..." she let out in front of the unspeakable.

She buried her face in her palms, mouthing uncontrollably and wishing that a giant fault suddenly opened in Michigan and swallowed her in the depths of the Earth. He'd found her secret box. The one no-one knew about except her. The one she opened whenever she felt sad or lonely but kept telling herself that she should get rid of, that it wasn't healthy. This box was the only thing that had kept her alive during the shooting aftermath. The only tangible proof that Rio's presence in her life had been more than a permanently threatening gunpoint. And even after he'd come back from the dead, she'd needed this. To remind herself that things had not always been this cold, and harsh, and cruel between them. That it wasn't just in her head. That at some point, maybe, it had been, just a tiny bit, in his too.

She'd hesitated the day she'd added the bullets Rio had left on the bar when he'd angrily abandoned her to her drink after her pregnancy lie. And Marcus' drawing had been a question too. Both were heartbreaking evidence of what she'd done, inevitably reopening a forever too fresh wound every time she laid eyes on them. But they were part of the story, just like the rest of it. And she _needed_ this, she needed the story to be true.

But Rio was literally the last person on Earth she was willing to let know about it.

And now he knew. And he'd _kept_ it. And the thing was, even if a part of her was absolutely mortified by this and just wished that she'd never, ever, have to make eye-contact with him again with that unspoken knowledge lingering between them, another part of her just... wanted it back. And maybe the price to pay for it would be absurd, God, the simple fact of _asking_ him for it was enough of a price.

But she just couldn't let him take back all the meagre gifts he'd left for her on the twisted path of their non-relationship. He didn't get to do that to her. Not _again_.

When he entered the bar and spotted her, sitting at the counter, she knew from his satisfied smirk that he'd already figured out why she'd asked for an unscheduled meeting. He wouldn't make things easy for her by saying it, though, obviously not. He slid on the barstool next to her in a smooth motion, giving the bartender a quick nod almost instantly followed by the latter placing a drink in front of him.

She'd chosen Rio's bar, figuring that it would make things easier. Because they were the only customers here — God, how did this place even _run_? Did it exist for cash-washing purposes only? — which meant they could have some privacy. What she had to say was hard enough, she wasn't exactly eager to have to _repeat_ herself because of loud neighbours. And Rio seemed to like the place, which meant that she had a chance to catch him in a good mood.

She'd picked jeans this time. She was done dolling up for nothing but averted looks and annoyed pouts. And maybe she'd done a disservice to herself the other time, maybe she'd been too blatant, and ruined her own chances. Well, she wouldn't this time. She didn't want to _seduce_ him this time, quite the opposite, actually. She wanted to claim what was hers and make her point clear.

There was one notable exception to her apparent absence of specific preparation, though. She hadn't had the courage to search the whole house and try to guess what else he could have kept hostage. She'd discovered by accident that one of her lipsticks was missing. And although she wasn't sure that she wanted to know about the activities he engaged into with it, she'd inferred that a subtle addition of that same shade of red to the natural color of her lips wouldn't leave him totally indifferent.

She didn't say anything at first, and he took his time to take a sip of his drink and run his tongue over his stretched lips before he asked, "So wassup?"

She gave him a quick side glance but he wasn't looking at her, at least not yet, keeping his stare focused right in front of him.

"You were supposed to give everything back," she softly reminded him.

He chuckled.

"If you think Imma let you keep a fuckin' shotgun to shoot me with, you goin' nuts, mami."

"That's not what I'm talking about," she said, keeping a steady voice.

He raised an eyebrow, rolling his eyes at her for the first time. There was a daring light in his gaze.

"Well, maybe I wanna hear you say it, then."

She stiffened, "Absolutely not!"

Maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe this was too hard. Maybe she should just give up on that box. She stayed still though, waiting upright on her stool. Trying to get the upper hand, just for once.

He averted his gaze, keeping quiet for a while, and he took another sip.

"Alright then. Stuff in that box was mine. I just anticipated a bit on the day you'd return it. Cool?" he eventually said.

She lowered her gaze, refusing to let him beat her.

"Marcus did that drawing for me."

"Yeah you don't get to keep anythin' related to my son," he hissed with so much sharpness that she felt something bleed inside of her.

"I... I just. I want my box back," she insisted, trying to keep the growing hurt and begging at fair distance from her current demeanor.

He turned his head at her, his eyes checking her with a cold expression.

"Why were you keepin' that stuff, Elizabeth? You jerkin' off watchin' the slugs you put in me?"

"God, no!"

Just for a split second relief showed up in his eyes and she almost choked on the lump that had instantly formed in her throat. The simple fact that he could seriously consider this possibility, that she could ever... do that. It was more sickening and hurtful than everything else he could have said to her. And okay, she did have tried to hire someone to shoot him. Again. But that last fact didn't mean that she was _happy_ about this turn of events. Not to even mention... horny about it. She'd rather not do this, but at this point, she had to consider every option.

"Why then?"

His low whisper woke her up from her homicidal thoughts and she lowered her eyes on her drink. Of course. Of course he'd force her to confess why she'd kept everything. A reason she still didn't quite explain to herself.

She tried the easy way, fairly doubtful that he'd buy it but it was still worth the try.

"Because it's mine," she emphasized, her lips pursed in an attempt to look firm and severe. "You gave me those things."

He chuckled and rested his chin in his palm. His eyes took her in, from top to bottom and then back to the top, and he took his time to lick his lips with a feral expression.

"What?" she asked, thrown off-guard by his reaction and hating how easily he could destabilize her while it took her such massive efforts to vaguely master some steadiness in front of him.

He shook his head with a slightly disappointed look on his face, the one of a teacher whose pet student would have given a wrong answer, "Ain't what I asked, Elizabeth. I said why you _keepin'_ 'em."

She blinked.

"What did you want me to do with this stuff? Throw it all away? Did you trash my pearls?" she dared him.

"Nah..." he smirked.

She couldn't repress her victorious smirk, "Well, see?"

"Sold 'em."

His eyes didn't leave her face as he delivered his bomb and she almost choked on her drink. She should have known better. His admittance had been too easy to bode anything good. But she wasn't ready for the unbridled cruelty in his eyes. She didn't care about whether that was true or not. It just hurt. So much.

This whole thing had been a mistake. He could keep her box. She'd have to learn how to live without it, and that simple thought was already causing her a heartache, but she couldn't take whatever this insane game was anymore.

She jumped out of her stool and grabbed her purse.

"Fine," she panted, breathless.

Fifteen minutes. She only had to keep herself together for a fifteen minutes drive. Then she'd be home. She could come apart. Nurse herself with a hot bath. And bourbon. And maybe a couple of sleeping pills to make sure that she wouldn't dream of him that night. And tomorrow would be another day.

She pivoted on her heels and his hand darted to grab her arm with a firm grip, stopping her dead in her intent to leave. Suddenly she realized that they were alone in there. The bartender seemed to have vanished in a puff of smoke and customers unrelated to Rio seemed to be an urban myth in this particular bar anyway. She slowly turned her head at him, meeting the irony in his eyes. She couldn't hate him more.

"You like that, don't you?" she hissed, hoping that her eyes reflected the exact amount of contempt she was feeling in this moment. "Hurting me, again and again. Until I beg you to stop. Is that what gets you off?"

Anger flickered in his gaze and he jumped out of his stool to tower her, almost threatening, his hand still fiercely clawed around her bicep.

"Oh I'm sorry, did I hurt you?" he snapped at her with furrowed eyebrows. "Cuz I don't remember shootin' three fuckin' bullets inside you!"

"Yes, sure, because that's your excuse for everything!" she exploded. "Nothing will ever top what I did to you. You think that I don't _know_ that? Well guess what, it doesn't make you better. Nor less hurtful."

A single tear ran down her cheek, escaping from her control and she angrily wiped it with the back of her free hand, furious to give him this minimal insight of weakness.

He considered her with an awfully neutral coldness, as if he was studying her, before he casually replied with a slight shrug, "Don't remember dumpin' you in my bedroom either."

"Well maybe that's because you kicked me out of _your_ bedroom before we even got to that part!" she spat back before even realizing what she was saying.

"You'd broken into my home," he growled.

"And you did that to me all the time!" she protested.

"You lied to me!"

She let out a hysterical laugh, "And that's coming from _you?_ "

He suddenly let her arm go, taking a step back from her.

"Alright. Go home, Elizabeth."

He was looking at her with something which looked like pity, as if she was crazy, and it was just... so _unfair_. She most certainly wouldn't leave anymore now, not without making a few things clear.

"You never told me anything," she started in a low voice, stepping into his space until she was almost pressed against him, giving him her most intimidating look. "You kept me in the dark. My God, you literally kept me in the dark. You _kidnapped_ me!"

She shoved him back with her both hands flattened on his chest as she finished talking and he reflexively caught her wrists in his hands, dragging her with him as he stepped back and pulling her even closer.

"Go home, Elizabeth," he warned, his eyes getting darker.

But she wasn't done here.

"You killed an innocent woman! I had to dig her grave to wipe her dead _face_ for God's sake!" she yelled at him.

"Well that's cuz _you_ messed up. Aint' really my problem here, is it?" he shouted back.

He pushed her backwards, letting her wrists go in the same smooth movement and stepping back as if he couldn't even stay too close to her.

"Yeah I want you to leave now," he lowly said.

Beth was panting, her chest throbbing with imminent sobs, but she was too upset and mad at him to give him what he wanted. To surrender and go home. But what escaped her lips next was far from anything she wanted to say.

"I didn't dump you," she whispered in the sudden silence, her eyes glued to the wooden floor. "Dean, he... He'd taken my kids. He forced me to quit to have them back."

There was an excruciating silence and she wondered what was wrong with her that lead her to tell him that, to display this ultimate weakness. But maybe he deserved to know after all. That it never, ever, had been her choice. Not for real.

Neither of them was breaking the silence and her eyes fluttered closed. God. She could barely _breathe_. Couldn't he just tell her to go home once again, give her that exit?

"How much you need to file for divorce?"

She almost started at the sound of his voice and the question left her puzzled until she connected the dots. Of course he'd seen the envelope. He'd seen _everything_ , which was incredibly unfair, but she needed to keep that in mind.

She raised her eyes back at him. Something had changed in his demeanor, and he looked... concerned. Well, almost.

"I'm not asking for your alms," she hoarsely replied.

"Nobody should ever blackmail someone 'bout their kids. Just gimme a number," he insisted.

She sighed. When had she lost so much control over the conversation that it had drifted that far away from her initial intent?

"I don't want your money. I just want my nightstand box back. That's my one and only price," she said, feeling suddenly tired to the bones.

That last answer seemed to throw him a bit off-guard and he slowly stepped towards her, only stopping when he stood inches away from her.

"Just tell me why you want that stuff back and it's yours," he muttered under his breath.

A penny for her thoughts and a wooden box for her feelings. He was looking at her with a mix a softness and curiosity that almost broke her heart. Because he'd searched through her stuff. He already _knew_. He just wanted to hear her say it. Her chin started to shake.

"I wish I could hate you," she whispered, hating the defeat in her voice.

"Oh you don't?"

He looked surprised. Shocked, almost.

She slowly shook her head, holding her tears back, "I miss you instead. I miss... us."

The words lingered for a while between them until he swallowed, as if absorbing them. He then raised his hand to gently push a lock of hair behind her ear and she oddly wondered if the bartender was supposed to ever come back.

"There ain't no us, mami. You know that," Rio sighed.

She slowly blinked, her eyes still locked with his.

"I know. There isn't. But... maybe there was. And I need that box to... to remember it."

Each word felt like a tiny little piece of her heart that she was ripping off her chest and throwing at him, expecting him to stomp on it, because crushing her feelings had always been the thing he was best at with her.

She waited for his reaction, a 'Please' that she refused to pronounce lingering on her lips. He still had a finger on her cheek after he'd touched her hair and he slipped it under her chin, using it to slightly raise her face towards him while he stepped closer. His eyes dropped on her mouth and she nervously swallowed, surrounded by his scent and trying so hard not to fall off this slippery edge.

It was still time to step back and run away from this. But she didn't want to. In a daze, she watched him run his tongue on his lips with something obscenely greedy in his fashion and she licked her lips in a mirroring reflex, tasting the red lipstick she'd put on for the night.

His eyes had turned into two black holes of unfathomable darkness when they came back at hers and she shivered with a small gasp at the sight, at the feeling of his finger under her chin, the heat radiating from his body, the tension vibrating in the air around them.

The second seemed to stretch into an hour, two people losing their balance at the edge of a cliff and faltering for the excruciating eternity of an instant before falling into the void, swallowed by the ocean.

Their mouths collided halfway between them, feverish and messy, in a mutual reach for the other. He sunk his teeth deep in her lower lip until she moaned in response, digging her nails in the fabric of his shirt and pressing herself hard against him. The kiss was sloppy and angry, hot tongues fighting and teeth craving blood, their lips jointed as if both their lives depended on it.

His hands were all over her, pressing bruises in her hips, her ass, her thighs, and pulling her impossibly closer. She crossed her wrists at the back of his head, desperately clinging to him, and she gasped under his mouth when he pushed her backwards, guiding her steps until the back of her thighs hit one of the bar dining tables.

His hips grinded into her while his mouth left her lips to print sharp bites in her neck and she let her head fall backwards, overwhelmed by her own desperate need to be touched by him. He pulled away for half a second, just the time he needed to spin her around and press his body against her back while she braced herself on the table.

His breathing was hot in her neck and she could feel him through his jeans, hard against her ass. His hands palmed her breasts, drawing needy mewls from her and before she knew it his fingers were working the buttons of her jeans and disappearing inside her panties.

He slipped two fingers between her folds, sending electricity in her every nerve ending and she loudly moaned, squirming against him as she sought for more friction. He let out a muffled groan at how wet she already was and she desperately waved her hips backwards against his crotch, the back of her head falling against his shoulder when he started to suck at her pulse point.

His fingers didn't keep teasing her for a long time, though, his whole attitude was screaming too much anger and resentment to demonstrate any enthusiastic dedication to her satisfaction. Soon one of his hands pushed against her shoulder, bending her over the table while he yanked her jeans and panties down. She actually had to shimmy a little to help him peeling off her jeans, and she briefly thought that the constant mismatch between her amount of efforts at dolling up versus the actual result of these was an irony worth meditating about.

But then she heard him unzip his pants and she stopped thinking at all, her hands firmly gripping the edges of the table barely an instant before he roughly pushed inside of her. She let out a hoarse noise and he gave her a second to adjust before his fingers firmly grabbed her hips, thrusting further with a low groan. He bottomed out before he almost entirely pulled out of her in a slow move that made her whole body shudder. Then he started slamming into her from behind, mercilessly, and she bit her lips not to scream his name.

She knew that he wouldn't be gentle with her, not this time. But she didn't care. She just needed him, her last stronghold against the pit of insanity they were both slowly dragging each other into. One of his hands left her hip to entangle in her hair and pull her head up, exposing her throat and curving her spine. A raw, animal moan escaped from her, her mind drowning in the memory of the last time he'd pulled her hair. How he'd made her watch, then. The heat. The distant sound of the powerful bass, drumming like a heartbeat. And the sight of him fucking her from behind in the mirror.

She closed her eyes, lost in the moment and in his furious pounding, feeling the pleasure build, savage and desperate, so sharp and intense that it made her eyes prickle with tears. The table was rhythmically swaying with every slam but she was too far gone to even barely register the moment when the miniature bucket sheltering cutlery and ketchup loudly crashed on the floor in a clatter of metal. Rio's thrusts were getting sharper, deeper, but in the middle of her haze she noticed that they were becoming more erratic too, his groans louder, and she knew that he was getting real close to his peak.

But she wasn't there yet. She needed more time. One of her hands groped backwards, grabbing his upper thigh and trying to slow him down.

"Rio... Please... I'm close," she whimpered.

"Oh you think you deserved that I wait for you?" he lowly drawled, not slowing down his thrusting pace, even the slightest.

She sucked in a moan, propelled further and further towards the edge with his every move. If she could just... distract him a little longer.

"I think I'll never let you fuck me again if you don't," she replied with all the steadiness she could find in her teetering self.

"Oh I don't think so," he purred in her ear, "You love my dick, Elizabeth."

His tone was confident but he had slightly slowed down and she decided to push her beginning of an advantage further.

"Wanna take the risk to find out?" she teased in a hoarse breath, the pleasure clouding her mind with want and need, her fingers contracted into a fist clutching the seam of Rio's jeans.

He seemed to hesitate but she was so close now that she couldn't repress a foreshadowing clench around him.

"Fuck!" he grunted, his fingers sinking harsher in the flesh of her hip, mean and punishing, while he angrily slammed back into her.

She cried out as his third thrust sent her over the edge and she felt him coming apart with her, losing himself deep inside of her and spilling out. She rode the wave of her orgasm and he crashed over her, his teeth leaving a mark in her neck while her walls were uncontrollably pulsing around him.

They stayed still, panting, for maybe half a minute before he let go of her hair and slowly detached his fingers from her hip. He slipped out of her and she acknowledged the loss with a small whimper. She saw his hand moving past her to grab a few napkins from the dispenser screwed to the opposite side of the table and he just dropped a couple of them in front of her before stepping back, probably to clean himself up too.

Avoiding his eyes, she cleaned up with slightly shaky hands, and in the heavy silence she could almost physically feel the walls between them falling back shut and keeping them apart.

"Case you got any doubt," he coldly said, dropping something beside her on the table as she was buttoning her jeans back.

She lowered her gaze on the pregnancy test and her eyes fluttered closed. Of course. He'd found out about that too. She inhaled through her nose with her lips pursed, in an attempt to not display how much it hurt to have another one of her lies thrown at her face _now_ , right when she thought that they'd both just exposed a tiny bit of vulnerability.

She didn't answer. She just shoved the little cardboard box in her purse and left without even one last look at him.

The tears started to roll down in the middle of her drive back home. And they just never stopped after that. Dean was already asleep when she entered the bedroom, and she tiptoed to the bathroom, the silence only disrupted with his slight snores once in a while. Maybe if the circumstances were different she'd have passed on the perspective of a shower, willingly going to bed with Rio's spit on her skin, his scent in her hair and his come between her thighs. But she just wanted to scrub it all off her right now.

She'd stopped crying when she stepped out of the shower. She silently came to lie down by Dean's side, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. She was so _tired_. She didn't want to think about it anymore, didn't want to process anything more than she already did. Tomorrow would be another day.

The morning sunshine was already flooding the room with warmth when she woke up and she wondered if she had overslept. Dean had apparently already left the bed but the sheet on his side was still tepid.

"Beth?"

She straightened up a bit, rubbing the sleep away from her eyes with the pad of her fingers, "Yeah?"

Dean's head popped up in the room through the door frame, "What's that? I just found it in the kitchen?"

He was holding a small wooden box and Beth's heart skipped a beat.

"Sewing stuff. Jane ripped off a button from her jacket last week," she replied with a soft smile. "Just leave it here, I'll put it back in the chest upstairs."

Dean dropped the box on the nightstand with a shrug.

"Okay. I'll go wake up the kids, then?"

"Sure."

She gently smiled at him but her expression abruptly switched to anxious as soon as Dean left the room. She darted to the box, her heart racing with a mix of fear that Rio might have returned it empty and fondness at the thought that he'd eventually given her what she'd asked for.

He... Well, he'd definitely returned a _part of it_. His handwritten notes, along with the bourbon label — that bottle he'd left for her was _really_ good stuff, that she had to admit — were still here. But the bullets and Marcus' drawing were gone, which... fair. After all the bullets were her gift she'd left to him — _in_ him — rather than the opposite. And the look on his face when she had mentioned Marcus had been so homicidal that she wasn't surprised that he'd kept the drawing.

What did surprise her was the note he'd _added_. And even if she'd never pass on a new sample of his hazardously conflicted handwriting, she had absolutely no idea of what he possibly wanted to say to her that he couldn't tell the night before. She unfolded it.

A phone number. And a name.

_Gretchen Zorada, Esq._  
_Say you call from me._

She pensively bit her lips. She didn't want his money, nor his pity. But she could use a recommendation.

_You say I never help. This is me helpin'._

She heard the distant noises of Dean making breakfast for the kids, their little voices screaming with excitement and him keeping them entertained, chit-chatting about school with them. Not so long ago, she'd have been itching with the urge to go and check that he wasn't doing wrong or forgetting something important. But she didn't anymore. It had been a long, hard road, but he could handle it by now.

She sighed. They were more than ready. Both of them. She had no excuses anymore. Nothing to hold her back but fear. And it was time to put an end to that too. Still holding Rio's note between her fingers, she grabbed her phone and started dialing the number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait, I really intended to post this sooner, but like I said before, writing and focusing is really hard for me right now. I hope you liked it anyway!

**Author's Note:**

> [06/05 EDIT] I have noticed that I got a lot of new guests kudos lately, so first of all thank you very much, it's really nice to see that so many people appreciate my work! But also I would reaaaaaaally like to know how so many of you found out about my fics? Are you a group or something? If anyone of you guys could just post a comment to tell me, or send me an ask on my [tumblr](https://bourbon-ontherocks.tumblr.com) just to let me know that would be super nice because I'm dying to know!!! Thank you again!! 💖💖💖💖


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